


It's Only Wednesday

by 221Bme



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Шерлок Холмс | Sherlock Holmes (TV 2013)
Genre: Additional scenes, Angst, Bonus Scenes, Eating Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, Worry, possible eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:31:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Bme/pseuds/221Bme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on things after the restaurant scene in A Study in Pink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John could remember very well the first time he'd become aware that beneath all that incredible deduction hocus-pocus and hard exterior, there might be somewhat of a problem.

_A problem with Sherlock Holmes._

_**A deadly problem.** _

It was during their first case together, which John had aptly named  _'A Study in Pink.'_  The two of them had been staked out in a restaurant, waiting for the killer to show up. The entire experience may well have been abundantly awkward, but that wasn't what John was trying to focus on now.

He'd rather not remember that part, honestly.

As soon as the menus were placed in front of them Sherlock had immediately moved his aside, as if it were some kind of useless annoyance, or—as John now pondered—perhaps vaguely threatening.

"You may as well eat. We're going to be waiting a long time."

"Hm... You going to?" John was too busy looking over the menu to glance up at him, distracted by how hungry he was and how appetising everything looked.

"What day is it?"

The question did seem random and out of place, but John didn't really take much notice. "It's... Wednesday."

"I'm okay for a bit."

"Wha—" John stopped reading and looked up at him finally, not meaning to raise his voice, but not really caring anyway. " _You haven't eaten today?_  For god's sake,  _you need to eat—_ "

Sherlock still wasn't looking at him, instead keeping his eyes fastened on that bloody mirror in the back, thereby watching the road behind him. "No,  _you_  need to eat,  _I_ need to think." He leaned forward and set his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers. "The brain's what counts, everything else is for transport."

John would have argued further, but at that moment the waiter arrived at their table again, settling a candle in between them. He could only look up and then across at the man on the other side of the table, who apparently had not and  _was not_  going to eat today.

"...You might consider refuelling."

This got him no concrete response, and he felt rather pressured to give up on the subject.

But he hadn't given up thinking about it. Nor had he come any closer to understanding Sherlock 'I don't need to eat yet because it's only Wednesday' Holmes.

* * *

Unfortunately, that hadn't proved to be a one time thing.

It seemed to be Sherlock's routine to go for days at a time without food of any sort, and usually with no break in activity, so that the doctor wondered how on earth he wasn't feeling the effects.

The only conclusion he could come to wasn't very reassuring.

That he  _did_  feel them—the fatigue, the aching hunger, the dizziness and light-headedness, the general discomfort—and just ignored them all and kept pushing.

Perhaps some of the symptoms would be dulled from a long time of experiencing them, but that was no better.

That just meant he'd been starving longer.

_And that he didn't care._

Even off cases, it took John nearly forcing him to eat. Not in the sense that he had to grab his face and force-feed him—thank god—but that he had to be the one to do the shopping, and the cooking, and put the plate in front of Sherlock, along with a few reminders, before he'd eat it.

It worried him, sometimes. He would mention it, off and on, and the response was always the same:

"I don't eat during cases. It slows me down."

Or:

"I just need to think. The body is transport."

Transport or not, that didn't seem to John like a valid reason to fast for three days in a row while still dashing up and down staircases and running all about London, jumping fences and leaping down balconies. All the while hardly sleeping, either.

The man had to faint sooner or later.

But it seemed he usually toughed it out and pushed through as long as it took, running on pure caffeine, nicotine, and adrenaline, so that by the end of a case he would so knackered that all he could do was collapse on the sofa, fully clothed in coat and scarf and shoes and unable to do much more than sigh.

By the next day, though, everything seemed to have started over again. Sherlock's inner clock seemed to be reset, and he would be off looking for another fix.

Another case that would not only satisfy his appetite for excitement, but also his lack of appetite. A good reason not to eat.

_An easy reason._

_A convincing one._

And all the while having fun in sufficiently dangerous situations to keep him content. To prove he was clever.

All this John could only watch with slight concern for his friend. There were things he wanted to say, things he wanted to do, but Sherlock did not seem open to change.

He didn't seem to care enough that he was starving to do something about it.

Unless...

...That was what he aimed for.


	2. People you don't like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I'm enjoying writing this story, and while there are some things I like about it, I don't feel like it's my strongest one. I'm not sure what to do about that.

_Sherlock Holmes behaved like a child._

_A walled off, starving child._

That's what John decided. This led him to consider what Sherlock may really have been like as a child—which was somewhat of a frightening thought, honestly. But this, in turn, led to yet another question.

From what he'd heard of the Holme's parents, they seemed like fairly sweet people.

But from what he'd seen of Sherlock and Mycroft, neither of them were quite...

How should he put this...

_Well adjusted._

Mycroft, of course, seemed to have it much easier, but even with their massive intellects it always seemed that there was something  _off._  Their reactions and methods of coping just didn't seem like normal developments one might expect from children growing up in a healthy, functional environment.

Of course, maybe they were. John was no expert on the subject of psychology, and he knew it. He just wondered.

But one thing he did know in pretty certain terms was that  _Sherlock was not a sociopath._

Believe it or not, he did possess empathy. John had seen that on more than a few occasions, even if Sherlock tried to keep it a closely guarded secret.

See,  _there_ —that in itself was one of those dysfunctional coping methods John was talking about. The way he tried to keep it all in. To act like a bloody  _machine_  who did not, and didn't need to, feel things like a normal human being.

That  _couldn't_ be natural.

Right?

Or, for that matter, even saying that he was a sociopath in the first place. If it were such an obvious lie, why say it? Sherlock was clever—he knew what was true and what wasn't. Meaning that he'd come up with that as a distraction.

A front to hide behind.

_So what on earth was he hiding from?_

It was this that John found himself pondering one afternoon as Sherlock lounged on the sofa, worn out almost beyond belief after finally solving a case involving somebody who must really have been a sociopath, truly.

_No ifs, ands, or buts._

They'd come closer to death than John would have liked.

_As if he'd like any measure of closeness, really._

But it was going on four days now since the last 'Wednesday,'—as John now referred to the last day he'd seen the detective eat anything—and it was showing.

This had set John off thinking again about the reasons why.

"...Sherlock?"

"Mm." Sherlock didn't stir from his prone position on the sofa, this time having at least had the energy and focus to take off his shoes before collapsing.

"What school did you go to?"

He was met at first with silence, as if the detective were deciding whether or not to waste his breath in answering him. "A private school. You wouldn't have heard of it."

"Oh. Boarding?"

"Mm. ...Why?"

"Just trying to make conversation." John was aware that he wasn't covering his tracks as well as he'd like to. "Er... have any friends there?"

The silence that met his words was answer enough.

A resounding, but unspoken,  _"NO."_

_Obviously._

Of course he hadn't. They were talking about Sherlock, after all.

He didn't have friends, he had enemies and acquaintances—and then John, of course.

But... even back then?

John found himself imagining little Sherlock, day in and day out at boarding school, going about his work all by himself. Though... he couldn't help but think that with Sherlock's personality and differences between him and normal children, there could have been much peace for him.

_Oh..._

"So... you had enemies, then?" John tried to keep it light, but couldn't help worrying that his real question was showing through.

Sherlock was quiet for a few moments. "Yes. But doesn't everyone?"

"One or two, I guess. People you don't like. And... sometimes there'll be bullies, of course." John glanced at him, watching to see if there would be any reaction.

Sherlock was already looking at him.

_He'd already seen through his thin veil._

_Abort mission._

_**Abort.** _

...Too late.

Sherlock mustered enough energy to push himself up into a sitting position, looking all too tired for this shit. "John."

"...Yeah?"

"This is just one reason why you would be absolute  _rubbish_  as a secret agent."


	3. The only freedom left

Oh,  _shut up._ " John frowned crossly.

Sympathising with the man was one thing. Putting up with his bad attitude was another  _entirely._

Sherlock only let himself fall back onto the sofa with a soft  _thump,_  gazing at the ceiling with weary eyes. "In answer to your blatant question, yes." Those eyes flicked over to him, just checking. "There are sometimes bullies. But I don't see why you're focussing on such an inconsequential topic when you could be congratulating me on my fantastic success today."

John rolled his eyes, trying to decide how to take that.

_It wasn't inconsequential if it'd had lasting consequences._

Which, perhaps it hadn't, and John was just fooling himself with a lot of deep thinking that would really only turn out to be a little two inch puddle of fuzzy intellect and cloudy guesses.

_Or maybe he was closer than he thought._

* * *

"I  _DO_  eat normally! Only what's necessary for survival! It isn't my fault that human society is gluttonous and excessive beyond measure!"

Okay.

_Alright._

**_No._ **

That hadn't been what John had wanted to hear when he'd tried gently reminding the consulting detective that he wouldn't be quite so tired all the time if he'd just eat normally.

" _Normally my ass!_  Sherlock, you're-" He stopped and tried to marshall his composure back into shape, but found it hard. "You're  _starving._  Okay?"

"I ate on Tuesday."

"And it's Wednesday now. Does that mean  _anything_  to you?"

Sherlock only rolled his eyes and went back to peering through the microscope at a skin sample he'd acquired from the morgue the other day. He would, clearly, much rather stare at magnified sections of decomposing flesh than have a conversation with John about his own decomposition.

That wasn't as interesting, because he already understood it.

_Probably._

"I don't get it." John gritted his teeth and crossed his arms, irritated at the feigned yet convincing innocence with which Sherlock seemed to be rebuffing the truth. "I don't see why the hell you insist on depriving yourself. A couple bites here and there isn't going to slow your goddamn mind down  _THAT_  much. If  _at all._  Which I highly doubt anyway, honestly."

Sherlock sighed carefully and looked up from the eyepiece, catching him in those striking eyes and giving him a pitying look. "I'm not deprived, John. I'm  _liberated._ "

John stared at him, slack jawed, blinking.

Something about it made the skin crawl on the back of his neck.

_What on earth..._

"I... don't..." He stopped himself, deciding to throw censorship to hell. "No, you're insane."

Sherlock merely shrugged and went back to his skin sample, turning the dial on the microscope slowly, carefully, and at the same time John felt that he, too, was being scrutinised, even though he shouldn't have.

"After a while like this, John, when you find you're still alive and fine, you just have to scoff at the rest of the world. The people like you who still believe you need food to survive. It becomes almost funny."

"...Sherlock?"

The detective finally looked up at him again, waiting.

John swallowed. "There's something desperately wrong with what you just said. Can you see that? Stupid, insane, and desperate."

Sherlock merely frowned and glanced away.

He clearly didn't like being on the wrong end of things, especially when he felt in the right.

_But why did he feel like he needed to starve to be liberated?_

_Why did that have to be the tipping point?_

_Surely there were plenty of other things he could control that would give him the same freedoms?_

_Since when did that become what one had to do to get his fix?_

_...Perhaps when the only freedom left is the freedom to starve._


	4. Like shadows on white paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to see what happened after that scene in Soo Lin's flat in TBB, so I tried to write it.

_Nicotine replaced food._

_Drugs replaced nourishment._

_One need was channelled into another that would directly suppress it, but, in the process, cause more harm than good._

_Didn't Sherlock think about that?_

_Didn't he even care?_

_Apparently not._

_Three times he didn't care-three smokes, three patches, three day's fast._

_Three times too much._

_Ridiculous._

* * *

" _Any time you want to include me!_ " John bit his tongue to hold back the frustration that was beating its fists on the inside of his ribcage. He could hear the blood in his temple, and though he tried to deescalate it, he knew this was not a good time for the consulting detective to be so  _bloody annoying._

It had been over five minutes since Sherlock had leapt up onto that fire escape and into the flat owned by Soo Lin Yao, the suspected victim, leaving John behind with only a locked door and his frustrating shortness to keep him company.

_How the fuck did somebody so undernourished have that much energy?_

He had hopped up and pulled down that ladder like it was nothing. And yet he hadn't had enough presence of mind-or decency-to help John up after him.

_Bloody bastard._

John peered into the post-slot impatiently, trying to get a glimpse-but it was too small to see much. "You could let me in right about  _NOW!_  BUT  _NO,_ " He let it clatter shut and stomped backward, trying to shake the angry out of himself. "I'M SHERLOCK HOLMES, AND I ALWAYS WORK ALONE BECAUSE NOBODY ELSE CAN COMPETE WITH MY  _MASSIVE INTELLECT!_ "

Barely a minute later the door banged open from the inside and John was met with the sight of Sherlock, standing there with his scarf draped haphazardly around his shoulders and looking somewhat-John now realised-ruffled.

Sherlock drew in a shallow breath, clearing his throat. When he spoke his voice was husky and short, and he soon ran out of breath and had to begin again, with effort. "The, uh, milk's gone funny and the washing's started to smell; somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

Quite honestly it sounded as though something were forcibly squeezing the breath right from Sherlock's chest.

"Somebody?"

Sherlock nodded. "Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"How, exactly?" John watched as Sherlock bent to pick up a piece of paper lying at their feet on the step and unfolded it, studying it.

He held it up, trying not to wheeze. "We could start with this."

The next moment John was hurrying to follow his friend as he took off down the street, huffing in the cold London air.

"You've gone all croaky, are you getting a cold?"

Sherlock coughed roughly, but didn't slow down. "I'm fine."

But just the same John kept casting glances at Sherlock, having got a look in his eyes and noticed the extreme constriction of his pupils.

_Not a cold?_

"Sherlock, are you sure you're alright?" John's anger was left, forgotten on the doorstep, replaced by confusion and slight concern.

But the consulting detective only nodded.

_Don't bother._

_I'm fine._

* * *

It wasn't until later that John caught a glimpse of them.

Sherlock was just removing his scarf and coat, and although he had his back to John they were quite visible.

They stood out in scratched relief on his naked throat, like shadows on white paper.

_If shadows were like fading red, angry-looking bruises._

John stopped where he was, in the middle of getting dinner, and couldn't help but stare. It felt as if he were seeing something he shouldn't have.

Something private.

He quite forgot about the can of beans in his hand until he nearly dropped it, and quickly set it on the countertop and moved over closer to the detective.

"Sherlock. What..."

"Mm?" Sherlock put a hand up to his neck, laying it there, feeling them. "Oh... still there...?"

He shook his head slightly and went to hang up his coat, apparently not planning on elaborating any further.

Perhaps not thinking it necessary.

"No, Sherlock, what is that?" John trailed his steps stubbornly. "Where did that come from?"

Sherlock merely sighed. "I... met with The Spider."

"No-what?"

"I found Soo Lin's brother, Zhi Zhu."

"Yeah, I know, in the museum-"

"No, before that. In her flat. He'd got there before us." Sherlock shrugged in an attempt to slough off the conversation, but the shadows on his throat only drove it farther home for John.

_Oh..._

John swallowed. "So, you mean he..."

"Yes." Sherlock spoke matter-of-factly, tired of idle discussion. "It was only a warning, and as I was completely able to speak afterward, there was no harm done and no use pushing it."

 _'Completely able to speak_ ' after choking, gasping, and gagging, and fighting the painful feeling of your airway collapsing in on itself, perhaps.

_Bruises didn't just appear from a light tug 'round the neck, after all._

John pursed his lips and looked at him for a minute. "How do they feel now?"

"Like you would expect. Just a little sore."

He nodded. "Okay. Sherlock? Listen. Don't do that, alright? Pretend like nothing happened. I'm your friend; I'm allowed to know if you just got  _nearly strangled unconscious._  Tell me that kind of thing, yeah?"

Sherlock just shrugged again, but nodded slightly.

_Help did not seem to be his first instinct._

_And that could be a problem._


	5. Friends

_"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

_"No, FRIENDS protect people."_

John was livid.

He could feel his ears and the back of his neck burning as he shouted back at his best friend.

_This was unreal._

_He really was **that**  stupid._

_Stupid, stupid-_

If Sherlock would just open up a bit- _even just a little bit-_ and actually  _let_  somebody be his friend, maybe he wouldn't be so bloody screwed up. But  _NO_ -he wanted to be all alone for the rest of his life. And at this rate he probably  _would_  be.

Because what was John supposed to do for him if Sherlock wouldn't even let him in?

_Nothing._

That was what.

And it wasn't for lack of trying that John was failing miserably. He wanted to, he really did. At first he had found Sherlock to be fascinating, if a bit irritating once in a while. And then suddenly he'd found that it was more than that.

He'd got attached to the git.

He'd become John Watson's best friend.

And now apparently that feeling was not reciprocated, and all because of Sherlock's messed up, backwards, inhuman world-views.

Fuck him.

Fuck consulting detectives.

_And fuck Wednesdays, too, dammit._

* * *

_"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

_"No, FRIENDS protect people."_

John was upset.

Sherlock could see that.

But he was powerless to explain exactly why.

Was it because John believed he wasn't trying hard enough? That he believed Sherlock thought him incapable of helping?

_Not true._

It was more difficult than John understood, to ask assistance. In fact, it was damn near impossible.

Sherlock was alone.

He'd always been alone, and he'd gotten used to that. He'd learned how to take what he'd been given and turn it into a fairly effective shield against the people who disliked him, or worse.

Which was a fair bit of the world's population.

But he was used to that.

He had learned, fairly early on, that this system worked, and that if he let this guard down too much the only thing he would get would be a kick in the ribs or a stab in the back. Figuratively, of course.

Except for the kick in the ribs; adolescent school boys could be exceptionally violent.

_Idiots..._

Not that that sort of experience in any way influenced his current disposition-he only took into consideration things that would make logical, relevant sense here and now.

But John was different.

He seemed genuinely kind, in his own way. But what he obviously didn't care about was how difficult this was for Sherlock, now. Even if there were times, here and there, where he really did wish for a little help-someone to have his back, or to just be there when he really, really needed it-he could not verbalise it.

He could not ask for help, because then, logically, help would be given.

And then Sherlock would have no idea how to function anymore.

It was the closest thing to fear he would let himself acknowledge.

_Terror._

It was the loneliest feeling in the world.

To desperately want company and yet vehemently reject it.

To want it, and yet to hate it at the same time. It was uncomfortable the whole way round.

So he would take what he could get. He would take alone, because alone was familiar. He knew how to work with alone.

And no idea what to do with  _'friends.'_


	6. To not count

Molly often noticed it, when she saw him.

When he visited the morgue, or even when she attended the Christmas parties at 221B Baker Street.

He would say something clever-or rude-and then he would smile in your face.  _At least until you turned away._

Then he stopped smiling, like it was a hard act to keep up.

Or not worth it.

Or...  _Something._

Molly didn't want to come to any conclusions just yet.

It wasn't always just the drop of a smile, though. Sometimes it was more than just a return to that blank, unaffected look... Sometimes when the mask fell it seemed to reveal a sort of melancholy.

Sometimes, when people looked away, he looked sad.

When he thought they couldn't see him.

It made Molly's heart twinge a little when she caught glimpses of it, when he talked to other people, and she was quite sure it happened when he talked to her as well.

Something he was hiding.

She longed to just take him aside and ask him what was wrong-maybe even to wrap her arms around him in a comforting hug and make it all better, but-

That would never happen.

He wasn't that sort of person.

He didn't like that.

And whatever it was that made him look sad like that probably couldn't just be fixed so easily. But she couldn't help wishing, and even hoping that somehow John would see and realise that something was wrong and do something...

Maybe John would have a better chance getting through to him. Maybe she should tell him...?

But he might not believe her...

Sherlock made a better effort for John than for most people.

_Very convincing._

_But not convincing enough for Molly._

What if it was serious? The way he looked sometimes, and all possibilities considered... It was worrying, to say the least. Any number of possible circumstances ran through her head, and she couldn't help that her imagination ran wild.

He always tried to look so stoic and cool, like nothing ever effected him, like he was the best-but she knew better. He didn't care what she thought, so he didn't try as hard to hide it. She didn't matter.

And because she didn't matter, she could see what other people couldn't.

_It hurt._

It hurt to not count-and it hurt to be Sherlock Holmes.

She could see that.

Even if she was the only person in the world who knew... Even if he wasn't the sort for hugs... Maybe...

Maybe she could say something. Something to ease whatever burden he must be carrying, to let him know that he didn't have to pretend to smile around her, if it was difficult, or...

Something.

_Anything._


	7. Manhattan ketchup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just thought this scene deserved to be analysed a little further.

He couldn't be a happy man.

_Not really._

He loved the thrill of a case-but there was so much more to life than that... John only wished he could show him, sometimes.

But that would never happen.

Sherlock was too trapped in his own skills and intellect, too tangled up in it all to ever reach the outside, to ever know what it was like to be normal.

_To have friends._

John remembered, once, when he and Sherlock had been called out on a case involving a bank and some ancient Chinese numbers, they had met with a man who had apparently been an acquaintance of Sherlock's quite a while ago.

_Sebastian Wilkes was his name, if John remembered right._

As soon as they had sat down Sherlock had commented on Sebastian's recent travels, or something of the like. It sounded innocent enough to John.

Sebastian had just looked from one to the other of them before laughing uncomfortably. "Right. You're doing  _that thing._ " He turned and leaned over the desk toward John, a little too amicably. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

John could practically feel the irritation slithering down his best friend's spine, and coming off him in violent, silent waves.

But when Sherlock spoke it was controlled, though the tightness in his voice betrayed him some. " _It's not a trick._ "

_'The only thing I'm good at is not a hoax._

_I am not a parlor magician._

_I am not a trick pony looking for attention.'_

But Sebastian did not seem capable of interpreting the unspoken subtext, nor did he seem to care. Instead he leaned back in his swivel chair and regarded the both of them as if they were his enraptured audience, eager to catch every word that fell from his lips before it hit the dull carpet and exploded like a mini grenade. "He could look at you and tell your whole life story."

"Yes..." John stole a quick glance at Sherlock. "I've seen him do it."

"Put the wind up everybody. We  _hated_  him."  _There went one of those little grenades... A silent explosion only Sherlock could truly register the aftershock of._  But Sebastian was still laughing. "We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed." Sherlock's tone remained flat and dead, but there was a certain tautness about it that suggested he was tired of hearing exactly that sort of comment.

_Perhaps a bit more than tired._

_'We_ hated _him.'_

_'This freak...'_

...It certainly didn't sound like your average university memories. Then again, Sherlock was anything but average.

Still, the name 'freak' seemed to be coming up a bit more than John would have liked.

A common identifier.

And a harsh one at that.

But Sherlock seemed to be dealing alright, and what would John have said anyway? It would have been weird.

Better to let it work itself out.

"Go on, enlighten me." Sebastian had grinned very widely and set his feet up, looking at Sherlock. ""Two trips a month flying all the way around the world." You're quite right. How could you tell? Your gonna tell me there was a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No, I..."

"Oh-or it was the mud on my shoes?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, the way they did when he was thinking, but still he spoke matter-of-factly. "I was just chatting with your secretary. She told me."

Sebastian seemed caught off guard, and John cast another glance over at Sherlock, half questioning. But the next moment Sebastian was laughing again, though whether in amusement or to cover his embarrassment it was difficult to tell.

_Neither of them saw Sherlock's slight smile fall._

_They had both looked away._


	8. This is my friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go at the same scene from a different perspective, with a little different starting point.

It had been a good thing.

_A stab in the heart._

It  _must_  have been a good thing.

_It hurt._

It had put a check on him; he was beginning to let his heart rule his head, after all. And that would be the death of him. Thinking he could  _really_  have a friend of any kind...

He was Sherlock Holmes- _he didn't have friends._

There was work, and then there were enemies, acquaintances, and colleagues. It didn't really matter whether he bothered sorting them-they all hated him anyway, clearly.

No matter.

At least the work was objective.

So it had to have been a good thing, what John had said. It had reminded him of where things truly stood.

Sherlock remembered exactly how it had been; a neat office at the bank, clean and furnished with decor that tried to be upscale while still being office-affordable.  _Boring._

Sebastian Wilkes had met them at his door, predictably overly-friendly and positively irritating, as always. Wilkes had always been like that-but before it had been his penchant for late night parties and generally acting like a twat that had really ground on Sherlock's nerves.

Everyone else seemed to have found Wilkes delightful, though.

_People..._

He already knew Wilkes was just putting on a show of amiability to cover for his past attitudes toward Sherlock.  _Only now that he could be of some use..._

But Sherlock had squared his shoulders and shaken his disgustingly annoying hand, been perfectly polite, and even introduced John.

He'd chosen his words carefully.

Spoken with some force.

_Hear me now._

"This is my friend, John Watson."

He had almost taken pleasure in seeing that arch in Wilkes' brow, and hearing that surprised lilt in his voice. " _Friend?_ "

_Yes._

_Even **I**  am capable of having a friend._

_I am not what you think I am._

"Colleague."

John's voice had caught Sherlock off guard.

It had smacked him upside the face.

Might as well have punched him in the jaw.

No-put a boot on his chest and stomped the breath out of him.

_He'd thought..._

_But..._

_It had seemed as if..._

_What he and John were like... wasn't that what friends were? Wasn't it?_

_Maybe he just didn't know..._

_But it had really seemed..._

No time to think.

Time to work.

He  _had_  to.

They had both taken seats before Wilkes' desk, and Sherlock had quickly thought up something to say, based on the obvious-the time and date on Wilkes' watch. Making conversation.

But apparently it hadn't been obvious  _enough._

Because the next moment Wilkes was laughing obnoxiously and going off on some stupid explanation to John, telling him all about how he and Sherlock had gone to uni together-calling what he did a ' _trick,'_  which was completely inaccurate and absolutely degrading-and quite honestly Sherlock wished wholeheartedly not to be sitting there, hearing this, and instead to be anywhere else, working.

John didn't care, after all.

He was just a... colleague.

But Wilkes kept on, unaware of how much Sherlock was willing him to  _shut up._  "-We  _hated_  him."

_Another twist of that metaphorical knife..._

He already knew it, but to hear it spoken out-loud, again, years later...

And there was nothing he could do about it.

_Hated..._

_Obviously._

"We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall," Wilkes was leaning over the desk toward John. "And this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

_Was it supposed to be a joke?_

_If it was..._

"I simply observed." Sherlock knew the man sitting across from him still put no trust in his observations, considering he was always so surprised when he read him correctly.

He must have told him that at least a hundred times.

But he never listened.

Why would he, after all?

If Sherlock couldn't even tell whether he'd actually made a friend or not?

It  _must_  have been a good thing...


End file.
